Apparently, just bikinis and swimsuits*

“Now, I don't have that many clothes for us. Believe me, I've only worn bikinis and swimsuits thus far as Tyra. I may have to order some regular outfits then,” Tyra says as she rummages through her drawers. I could imagine her as Tyrone stashing her collection of bikinis underneath her regular clothes, for fear of his father or his brothers from finding them out in the open and asking some serious questions about it. But I didn't see them to be as nosy as like how a mother would be or someone who was in charge of doing laundry.

From a corner of the dresser, Tyra pulls out a wad of fabric, which when thrown towards the bed, is revealed to be a collection of two-piece bikinis, the kind that have to be tied to fasten them to one's body. She makes sure the door is closed and locked before she loosens the towel from her body, making Tyra walk in the nude in my presence once again. To think that I'm this comfortable as a woman with another woman with no clothes just shows my experience. I've been in the same room as naked women, while I was one myself. The only difference is that the setting is a friendly one, while the scenes from the past have always had oppression tied with them.

I'm drawn to a white two-piece bikini and pick it out before Tyra has a chance to swipe it. “I spent a day at Miami Beach with that one. I've washed it, so don't worry,” she tells me. I loosen my own towel and proceed to put it on, with some difficulty. “Let me.” Tyra chimes in and I allow her to fasten the top and bottom, tying the strings together so that the garments are snug and flush with my body. There are no signs of sagging or looseness with them and I catch myself admiring my body in a full-length mirror mounted on Tyra's wall. “Looks good, Devon. But I don't think Dad would want us walking about in the house like this. Let's see. Maybe use these to cover us up.”

She tosses a few basketball jerseys on top of the bed. Most, if not all, are Golden State Warriors jerseys, some in color palettes that I have not seen before. It's another sign of how off the grid we were in that underground room. The man that held us did not have a TV. The only electronic devices he had was a radio, which ran on batteries. To power the lights in his bunker, he had a generator. From what I could observe, it was small and clearly not something he'd use to live in. It wasn't a house, yet he furnished it with items found in one. He had no need of modern devices or entertainment since he had a collection of prisoners he could use to pass the time.

“Devon?” Tyra asks, breaking me out of my train of thought. “You had this serious look on your face. Were you thinking about something?”

“I was thinking about that place and the girls I left there,” I tell her.

She takes a seat on the bed and reaches to place a comforting hand on my own, assuring me, “Don't worry. Marcus left to process the evidence we collected. Hopefully he can get results in a couple of days. Now would you put on Thompson's jersey and help me stop looking at the cleavage you got going on?” She pats my hand and I look down to see my hand clutching a particular jersey.

I laugh and unfold it to reveal it really is a jersey with THOMPSON stitched on the back above the number 11. The main color is a vivid blue and the arm holes and collar have a golden yellow. Along the sides are white vertical stripes. I put it on and find that it's obviously oversized for my smaller frame. The bottom edge drops well past my waist, ending an inch below the area where my buttocks straighten and flatten into my thigh. Tyra, after putting on a black bikini top and bottom, also puts on a jersey, this one mainly white with blue stitching around the arm holes. The collar also has blue stitching combined with yellow. And the sides are yellow vertical stripes. The name on the back is GREEN above the number 23.

A knock raps along the door and Tyra walks over to the door to answer it. She opens it wide so that I'm also seen inside the room. Behind the door is her father, looking a bit flustered. Maybe he isn't used to seeing girls in his house. “Yes Dad?” Tyra greets him.

“I was wondering if Miss Devon wanted to eat anything. We have some leftover lasagna from earlier,” he mentions. Tyra looks at me and shoots me with an inquisitive expression.

“Lasagna sound great,” I say, my eyes directed at Tyra's father.

“Alright, I'll go reheat some for you. Just come down whenever you are ready,” he says and leaves for the first floor.

I stand up to head for the open door, though I slow to catch Tyra's attention. She somehow sees my nervous expression and places both hands on the sides of my shoulders. “Don't worry. My dad's harmless. Oh here, it does get chilly downstairs,” she says, calming my nerves. Before she lets me go, she hands me a hoodie, obviously made for a man's physique as when I hold it against me, it's almost as long as the jersey I'm wearing. I put on the hoodie as I descend the stairs and I easily find the kitchen as it's lit up and there are sounds of a microwave in the process of heating.

I spot Tyra's dad looking through a refrigerator and when he detects my entrance he glances with a smile on his face, at once asking, “Anything to drink? Water, soda... beer? I'm not sure if you're old enough, though.”

“Soda is fine, thank you,” I reply.

“Take a seat at the table. I'll bring the food and drink out to you,” he says, gesturing towards the same table I was seated at upon my initial entrance. I notice one chair missing and I immediately deduce that Marcus had to swab it as well since I was sitting on it. I also notice a slight smell of ammonia and then spot the source of it. In the shadow cast by a wall next to the kitchen is a bucket with a mop inside it. I may have tracked mud and debris from my short trip from the kitchen to the bathroom and thus, Tyra's dad cleaned it afterwards.

The aroma of lasagna directs my attention to Tyra's dad as he brings a plate with steaming-hot goodness on it, setting it down in front of me. He also brings some silverware and a cup filled with ice. He goes back to the refrigerator and returns with a can of Dr. Pepper and even opens it for me and pours a portion of it into the glass. “Thank you,” I say, with a smile.

“You're welcome, Miss Devon,” he replies, matching my smile.

I chuckle and add, “Just Devon is fine.” Still smiling, he nods.

“I'll be in the living room, okay. Just holler if you need anything,” he says and promptly leaves. I'm glad that for the first time after three years, I'm being treated with respect and kindness by such a person called a gentleman. I could have been standoffish and distrusting of others upon meeting this family, but after seeing how compassionate they were towards me, a total stranger on their doorstep, I'm glad that I didn't. Picking up the fork provided, I dig into the meal prepared for me, shoveling bite-sized portions into my mouth at a relaxed pace.

I turn towards an increase of volume and wonder if Tyra's dad is in the living room watching TV. I make a plan to pay that part of the house a visit, but out of respect, I stay put to finish the dish, properly putting a filling meal into my belly. As I savor the differing textures, the slightly salty meat sauce and cheese, my mind goes back to the meals that that monster fed us. The portions were much smaller and it was humiliating that we usually had no use of our hands at least to eat, having to resort to bending down low to a dog bowl to put food into our mouths. During the first year by myself, every 30 days or so, he'd give me a lukewarm meal of ground beef. He had a maniacal laugh and smile when he saw how **** I was for food, gobbling it into my mouth with no self-respect or dignity. I was but a pet that he would violate everyday.

I snap back to the present and notice tears have fallen down my cheeks. Ashamed, I look around, but find no one around to catch me crying. I quickly wipe my tears and regain my composure before I finish my meal. I pour the remaining soda into my glass and eventually finish it as well. In gratitude for the meal, I kindly bring my plate, utensils and glass to the sink. I turn on the faucet and would proceed to wash the dishes, but I hear Tyra's dad call out from the living room, “Devon, you can leave the dishes there. Allow me.”

Following his order, I back away from the sink and...